


The Vigilante

by my_number_is_our_trees



Category: Tegan and Sara (Band)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29568144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_number_is_our_trees/pseuds/my_number_is_our_trees
Summary: After the second American Civil War during the 1920s. Rio Grande has formed from the former territories of New Mexico, Arizona, and some parts of what is now the Republic of Texas. The Union won both wars but lost almost it all in the following years. Forming several city-states and republics. Tegan Quin, born in the Republic of Texas and raised in an orphanage, has found herself on the side of the law. Bringing in bounties along with their handbills for years. Usually alongside a like-minded posse. Now she finds herself on the run from Texas with a bounty on her own head. Still looking for work and a place to call home, but a monster blocks her way.
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

“P-please don't,” the young man barely old enough to grow hair on his chin stammers. While a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning light up the area like a mid-summer fair. Showcasing the recent violence that just transpired in this small camp. It could only be more perfect if it was in one of those moving pictures that Hollywood makes.

Gripping the boy's throat tighter with my right hand. The barrel of my old revolver pressing against his forehead. As a small bit of the gunpowder residue mars his skin. Gritting my teeth against the rage that bubbles at the surface.

“The Red Hook? Where is he?” I growl out deeper than my relatively small stature would suggest. Used to surprise me. In my younger days anyway.

The fear evident in his eyes by a small muscle twitch just above his right eye. Perhaps the common emotion of shame most of these guys get for being taken down by a woman. A part of me always relishes at the thought. Maybe it is just a fear of what is to come in the afterlife following a life of such sin? I've spent countless nights debating this. Years have I thought, but alas, to no avail. Nowadays, I barely waste more than a split-second thinking upon it.

Pulling the hammer back on my revolver, I warn, “so ya is willin' to die for this man?”

“N-no,” the unfortunate youth begins, “he woulda gone back to the cabin by Onassis Bend. Near the split tree.”

“How many?” I press the barrel of my gun even harder into his forehead. He responds by squirming even more within my grasp. Forcing the grip around his neck to tighten for just a second. A little warning. “Don't tell me lies, boy. I don't like liars much. I can respect an honest man regardless what side of the law they call home, but lyin'? No, partner. I do not abide that at all. So, how many more of ya pieces of shits protectin' him?”

The man's eyes dart back and forth between the corpses and the scene of former chaos around us. With the fire dying down to embers, it is hard to see too far, but the distinctive smell of death and gunpowder lingers in the air in an unseen haze. The flames sputter as it goes from a gentle rain to a driving torrent in mere seconds.

“Ya got most of us, ma'am. Four or five...I dunno!” The young man shouts at me.

“Thank you,” I reply before pulling the trigger.

A small mist of blood decorates the muddy brown grass beneath his body. Going through his things. Looking for money, jewelry, anything that can be sold some for some money.

“I cannot abide outlaws, either,” I mutter to myself, standing over the wasted potential. With a shake of my head I push it out of my mind. His choices, not mine. Though, to be honest and fair, the Lord knows when you aren't, it isn't much different than what I used to be. Kinda. Morals and ethics weren't always my strong suit.

After a little more looting. I look over at Iona, my tan and white Arabian horse, and most loyal of companion for the past few years. Reloading both of my revolvers before climbing back into the saddle. Grabbing a cigarette from the pack within my trail-worn leather duster. Striking a match against the rough saddle. I take a few puffs before grabbing the reins and spurring on my faithful horse with a small cry.

“Onassis Bend,” I pat the horse and scratch her mane. “We know where that's at. Don't we, girl?”

Tossing what is left of my cigarette. I keep an eye out for anyone that might be out on the road this late. Doubtful but if there were anyone it would either be a criminal, a lawman, or someone with little to no sense. Not with the simmering hostilities between Rio Grande and the Sovereign Republic of Texas. Raids happen all the time and I am far too close to the border for my comfort. Still have a price on my head in Texas, no doubt, but can't change it now. Got a job to finish.

Once we crest over the hill to overlook the plains that slowly turn into the desert towards the horizon. A trail of smoke issues forth from a cabin some distance away. Grabbing my binoculars, I spot three men on guard each one holding a rifle or a shotgun. Meaning at least two more in the cabin. Yet, the young man's words ring true as there isn't enough horses for more than five, maybe six outlaws. Thankfully, it is a rather moonless night with the clouds of a monsoon coming in to cover me on the hill.

Pulling out the handbill to look at the picture of a gruff, one-eyed man. Despite reading not really being my strongest trait. I push on to read it to myself again.

“Wanted for murder, rape, torture, and unlawful conduct toward a lawman. Armed and dangerous. Him and his gang of outlaws have been terrorizing Neuvo Rojo just northeast of Cactus Flats. Dead or alive, prefer alive. Will pay more if alive. Bring corpse or person back to Sheriff's office in Cactus Flats. $500 dead. More if alive. The Red Hook.”

Folding the piece of paper. I stuff it in my back pocket before spurring on Iona to a large copse of trees. Where I dismount and take the carbine repeater from in its holster attached to the saddle.

“Right,” crouching down I make my way through the ocean-like grass. Moving with the wind to obscure me as much as possible. Times like this I consider my height and build a blessing.

As I come up to the end of the tall grass I bring up my rifle to look down the sites. The first two are close together. Easy to eliminate them but they know I am here now. The third guy takes several of my rounds to the gut. Pulling down the lever to eject the shells with each pull of the trigger. Got it down to almost automatic muscle memory, or something, by this point.

Rushing forward toward a large boulder. Sliding and ducking behind it just as several shots ring out from within the cabin. Gunfire, breaking glass, and yelling voices fill the night as I wait for my opening.

“Lawman, or should I say lawlady? Is that what ya are? Shouldn't ya be in a kitchen somewhere and give daddy back his guns 'n clothes?” A gruff voice shouts out during a break in the gunfire. Some idiot laughs from inside.

“Two more,” I whisper to myself after dropping my rifle.

“I know we didn't git you, girl. Git out. Leave. We'll let ya go. We'll honorable man,” the man replies to himself. “Keep this up. Something very awful will happen, girly. Might have to add ya to the hooks. Like so many others. Now git!”

“I'll give ya and yer buddy to a count of three,” I shout in response as I pull out a smoke bomb. “Then I am gonna come in, ya hear? Kill yer lackey. Then I am going to hogtie yer goddamn ass and make my money. So, git ready, partner.”

Lighting the long fuse on the smoke bomb. With a monotone voice, I intone, “one.”

“Try it!” A different voice must be the other guy.

“Two!” I yell as monotone and bored-sounding that I can muster.

Before I can shout three, I toss the smoke bomb through the broken window.

“What the fuck?” Comes from inside the cabin.

In a split-second, the bomb goes off and a pitch-black smoke begins to fill the building. One man exits the cabin. Not my target. So that shitty example of a human falls down to the ground with a round in his gut. Slowly dying and screaming in pain, but he gets no mercy from me. This is still less pain and suffering and torture than what he undoubtedly put their numerous victims through.

Vicious hacking and coughing come from inside as the criminal stumbles through the door. Falling to his knees as he tries to regain his breath but fails to do so. Pulling out both of my revolvers and pointing them at the scum sitting on the ground.

“Fine,” he grunts as his hands raised above his head. “I give up, ya carpetbagger.”

With a small, snorting laugh I kick the man down and begin to tightly tie his wrists together. Making sure the rope digs into his flesh for a little bit of revenge for my troubles, but more importantly, the poor souls he's affected over the years. Tying his ankles together in an even tighter knot.

“First of all,” I pull the man up to his feet with uncommon strength. The surprise in his face colors his all too homely features. A face that I doubt even a mother could love. “I am born and raised a Texan, though I do not think of myself as such. So, fuck ya for thinkin' I am a northerner. Second of all, ya lost the goddamn war. Twice. So, if ya can just shut up until we get to Cactus Flats. That would be grand.”

Groaning as I lift him up on my shoulder and tie him to the back of my horse.

Getting up on the saddle, I let out a long sigh. Scanning around me for any surprise guests. With a bit of a yell and a spurring from my boots. Iona takes off toward the small town of Cactus Flats. On the edge of the great Mojave desert and the rolling plains of northern Texas and the United Commonwealth of Oklahoma, Kansas, and Colorado. It has been a long time since I've been in the town. I barely remember it as I was a child. Though, I hear there's a boom coming thanks to the Coast To Coast Rail Company putting a station just outside of town to get better access to the wealthy ranchers and oil men that have begun to make their way to the area. A lot nicer of an area than Still Creek anyway.

Iona goes at a nice, slow trot to allow me a bit of time to enjoy the high I get from every successful job. Even this long into my career it still exists. Making it easy to ignore whatever the idiotic man is shouting at me about women, me being a dyke and going back into the kitchen, and for some reason, Native Americans, but whatever. These people just need to be ignored. A swift hit with the handle of my oldest, first revolver shuts him up.

As the sun begins to crack over the horizon the plains turn into homesteads and fields. A rail line crosses through the largest ranch in the entire state. Men and women have begun to attend to their tasks in the fields. Near the stables. Just doing what has to do be done. An honest day's work, and something I could never do. At least, would rather settle down in a town proper. Work as a lawman or just keep up this path I am on.

Lighting a cigarette while passing a sign welcoming me to Cactus Flats. A large well-maintained saloon and parlor house sits off to the right of the sign. Several hitching posts line the wooden walkway in front of it. A couple of women in nice dresses and too much make-up sitting on the balcony. Smoking cigarettes, glancing at me as I pass, and no doubt gabbing about the woman with a man tied to her horse.

A strong wind kicks up the dust on the road as the storm once again stopped to a gentle pace. At least I am already in town. Hitching up my horse in front of the Sheriff's Office. I lift the struggling man off Iona.

“Git yer damn dirty hands offa me,” The Red Hook spits at me.

“Oh, I'm the last friendly touch yer gonna ever feel, partner.”

Pushing open the newly-painted door to see a well-dressed middle-aged man with a revolver on his hip and a repeater on his back. The only thing on him without any refinement is the dusty old leather jacket. Almost matching the same color of his complexion, oddly enough.

“Is that The Red Hook?” The Sheriff asks with a hint of excitement in his voice.

“Oh yeah,” I reply as I walk past him and his deputy to the empty cell.

Depositing the scum on the small bed. Stepping out of the cell. A young man comes up beside me and locks the door.

“Enjoy yer stay,” I antagonize the soon-to-be-dead man.

“Fuck ya, bitch,” The Red Hook spits towards me again, but it ends up causing him to roll off the bed.

“Good work,” the Sheriff comes up to me and shakes my hand with a firm grasp. “Sean O'Day, Sheriff O'Day. Here's five hundred plus an extra seventy-five for his capture alive. This piece of shit has been terrorizin' the poor folk of this county for far too long.”

“My pleasure. I'm Tegan Quin, by the by,” I give my head a slight nod and take a hold of the brim of my trilby hat. Taking the cash and giving it a quick count. “Good doin' business with ya, Sheriff.”

Nodding, he walks me to the front door. Lighting up a cigarette and offering it to me before he lights his own. Inhaling deeply for a moment, I look over at Iona and hope the stable in town is good. This place is as decent as any other to stay in for a bit. With this money I definitely can go for a while before having to take another job. Though I doubt I will, I can't take a load off for a bit. Not until I am ready to call a place home.

“How's the inn here?” I ask as the rain begins to pick up a bit. My horse not paying it any mind whatsoever.

The Sheriff exhales, replying, “it's good. Cheap as well. Ya should check out the General Store. Owned by the Clements. Sweet family. Sad, though. They got everythin' ya could need. If'n ya need a stable. Other side of town. They're good. Might have work for ya soon if ya stick 'round.”

“Yeah, I might just do that, sheriff. See ya later,” I toss the last bit of the cigarette into the muddy road.

Stepping out into the rain to grab Iona's rein. I climb up onto the saddle before taking her over to the stables. Where I talk to a small local man who happily takes her. Giving the man some money for the best that my faithful friend can have. I give her a scratch before pulling out my pocket watch.

Sighing to myself as I stroll towards the inn. Thankfully, most of the wooden walkways are covered. Keeping me from getting any wetter than I already am. Passing by several locals who are kind enough to exchange greetings and pleasantries. I am most certainly an odd sight. Though, not rare for a woman to pursue this line of work. It isn't common, and I definitely carry myself in such a way to buck conventions and societal norms.

Rounding the corner, I spot a young woman in dusty coveralls wearing a yellow floral shirt. Shoulder-length brown hair tied up into a top knot. Holding more boxes than she probably should be trying to get into the front door of the general store.

“Here ya go, miss,” I quip whilst opening the door for her.

The woman grunts as she places the stack of boxes within the decently-sized and well-organized store. Even from here I can see all the shelves and displays and signs advertising many different products. But, most curious, is the five shelves full of both softcover penny novels and more expensive hardcover books. Nothing I am that interested in. Still, unexpected and perhaps they have a large reading population here? Would surprise me if they did.

Dusting her hands off in a dramatic fashion. Turning to look at me with a broad smile, and one of the most angular faces I have ever seen in my life. A jawline that could cut glass, yet she is downright beautiful. Tomboy for sure but still. I keep myself from staring at her like a slack jaw yokel.

“Thank ya very much, miss...?” She offers me her hand.

In which I shake, replying, “Tegan. Tegan Quin.”

“I'm Sara Clements and welcome to Clements General Store. Also, welcome to Cactus Flats,” her smile grows a bit larger before she moves over to the counter with the register. Bending down and rummaging about for a moment. She stands back up to offer me a pack of cigarettes.

Taking them from her. I look at the package to see that they are French. This causes me to raise an eyebrow, saying, “thank ya, but I don't think I've ever smoked a French cigarette.”

“Don't sell them. Well, other than Archibald. I like them myself. A lot,” Sara leans on the counter. An expectant look on her face.

Smirking, I offer her one of them and light it for her. Before I light my own, and with a deep draw. I exhale with a content sigh.

“Smooth. I like these a lot,” I comment.

Tapping her fingers on the countertop for a moment as she studies me. Like a hunter watching its prey. Her brown eyes seem to almost shine with a hint of intelligence that one wouldn't expect from a girl from nowhere Rio Grande. Not that I am one to talk at all.

Exhaling after a moment, she asks, “so, stayin' in town for long?”

“At least a week. I reckon. Here on a bit of business. The place seems quiet enough as well. So...a week, maybe two.”

“Until they start buildin' the gallows in a bit. Loud as all Hells. Be up by nightfall, and a hangin' for entertainment. Yer doing, no?” She shoots me a grin, running a hand through her hair as she unties it. “I saw ya come in this mornin' on my way into town. Was speechless that ya got The Red Hook. Good to hear ya will be stickin' 'round. Other nasty types in this region. Anyways I should probably get back to work.”

I snuff the cigarette out in an old tin cup turned into an ashtray. After a beat, I tip my hat to her with a slight nod. “A pleasure to meet ya, miss. Have a good day.”

“Go get some rest, hunter.”

The rain has slowed to a drizzle, allowing the workers to begin building the scaffold. Despite the weather, this town wants to hang The Red Hook. Which I understand the longer he stays alive. The more chances he has to escape. With a long yawn, I stroll toward the inn. The hammering of metal on metal comes from a workshop across the road. Black smoke billows from a large furnace as a large dark, a soot-covered man with a stained apron hammer on an obviously ancient anvil.

Painted black with white trim the inn gives off an air nicer than one would expect to find in this area. A well-dressed man stands off to the side close to a smaller building with a painted red cross on the building. A place that I hope I will never need.

“Hello, uh, madam,” the old man behind the counter folds his white glove-covered hands. “Good to see you. Do you need a room?”

“Yes, sir,” I step up to see the rates on the sign. “I'd like a room. Hmm...just a week for now.”

Opening his ledger the man writes a few things down. Looking up at me with a wide smile, he says with an almost meticulous accent, “very good, madam. Would you like a bath as well? Help get the trail off you.”

The thought of a hot bath sounds like a small piece of heaven right now. A wide smile crosses my face, nodding.

“I would, sir. Is there a washerwoman in yer employ?” I ask, lighting up a cigarette with contentment I haven't felt for quite some time.

“I will summon her,” he looks back down at the ledger. “Twenty-three dollars, madam.”

Handing the man twenty-five, “for ya, sir,” which elicits a tip of the cap and a thank you.

Turning to grab the key, he points toward the stairs, “last room on the right. Please enjoy your stay here at The Regency.”

What a name for an inn in the middle of Rio Grande, but I like it if I am to be completely honest. Climbing up the stairs with each step up causing pain to remind me of how broken I feel right now. It has been a constant struggle for the past couple of weeks. Haven't even really had time to process it all. Which, I hope, I believe that I have time to finally do here in Cactus Flats. No one is going to know who I am here.

A fancy well-maintained rug with intricate and ornate designs sewn onto it. Leads me towards a heavy wooden door that unlocks cleanly. Lavender wafts through the air as soon as I step inside to see a blue and white vase holding freshly cut flowers on a dresser. The bed is soft and fluffy as I sit down upon it. With a wooden table holding a metal ashtray and a drinking glass. Several pictures adorn the wall of various wildlife, landscapes, and even some of the native Comanche on their horses.

Through an old door lies the claw-foot bathtub as well as a washbasin in front of a gilded mirror. This place is almost the definition of fancy. One of the nicest places I've ever spent the night at. Almost a reminder of my time in New Orleans so many years ago.

A knock on the door draws my attention to a young lady in a low-cut cotton dress carrying a large bucket full of steaming water. Her dirty blonde hair tied up in a fancy knot.

“Hello, madam, here to get ya clean,” she flashes a smile.

Coming up to help her with the bucket she goes to protest but stops. Letting me do as I please. We make our way into the bathing room and the young woman seems to be a bit more relaxed. More than likely not that used to helping bathe, well, someone like myself. Dumping the water into the tub the young woman promises to return with some more as well as soap and scented oils. Giving her a smile, glancing at her a moment as she leaves, before removing my jacket and hanging it on a hook. Placing my hat on top. The sound of the rain is the only noise in my room and it is beyond soothing. After a few moments I am standing in front of the mirror wearing nothing at all. Old scars crisscross my body from bullet wounds to a rather bad stabbing I got on the left side of my stomach. Thin almost emaciated-looking, one could say, but I haven't had a decent meal in who knows how long.

There's another knock on my main door, and I shout, “come in.”

“This should fill the tub, madam,” I hear the woman's joyful voice suddenly stop. “I-I'm sorry, madam. I didn't mean to be so rude.”

“Nonsense, miss,” I reply, turning to look at her with a smile. “Ya have the same as I. Though, most assuredly yers fares better on the eyes than my own.”

A blush creeps up onto her cheeks as she gives a quick curtsy and scurries off to pour the water into the tub. Pulling out a small pouch from betwixt her breasts. Giving me a wink as her composure is returning, and of course, she must have caught me glancing. I try to be discrete. I try to be respectful.

“What scent would ya like, madam?” She asks as I enter into the soothing hot water.

A small coo escapes from my throat as my hurting, sore muscles begin to relax. Smiling up at her, I answer, “cinnamon, if ya got it.”

“Of course, madam,” she pulls out a tiny vial and empties it into the water. Kneeling down to place her hand in the water and agitate it to foam up some bubbles. Giving me more than a good view at her chest.

This is the game they play. So, I look freely and wish she would spend some time with me. But, I don't do that. When she stands up I ask her to grab my billfold. Without a word, she returns with the creased leather fold clasped closed with a silver star. Her eyes grow large when she sees the amount of cash within. Not really smart to carry so much, but I had no other choice. Plus, safer on me than in a bank anyway.

Pulling out twenty dollars, I offer them to her.

“Thankie very much, madam,” her voice borders on the edge of excitement as she takes the money. Coming over to give me a hug. More or less pressing me against her. Oh, how much I miss the soft curves of a woman. “Do ya want yer clothes to be cleaned?”

“Yes, please,” I smile up at her after she stands back up to gather my clothes.

“Be back soon then,” she gives a small wave following by a wink before leaving.

There is hardly a better feeling than being in a soft bed just scrubbed yourself as clean as you can be. You smell good, the room smells good. Everything feels good. That all my cares just disappear. The point, in fact, sleep comes very quickly for me. For once without any thoughts of the total failure that was Peterson Trading Post.


	2. Chapter 2

A knock on the door wakes me from my slumber. Grabbing my pocket watch to see that it is just past noon. Not the longest sleep yet as I stand up and stretch my arms above my head. I wish I had something to wear, and hope that it is my clothes.

“Yes?” I call out from behind the door.

When no one answers I reach over to grab one of my revolvers from its holster. Slowly opening the door to see a neatly folded pile of my clothes. Making me wonder how they dried so quickly. Regardless, grabbing the pile I proceed to redress and head into the town. Perhaps hit up the saloon for something to eat and drink. Then, I don't know, just see what the town has to offer.

The rain continues at a steady pace as I peer out into it. Finishing my cigarette with a gentle lean on a wooden column. Despite the weather, the town continues its business. The gallows are coming up surprisingly quick despite it all. Not surprised that the sheriff wants to hang this man as soon as possible. Not to mention offer some relief and entertainment to the citizens.

A young dark-skinned woman exits out of the doctor's office and steps past me with a short stare and a shy smile. Yet, with a clumsy gait, she trips over her own two feet. With some luck I caught her, trying to keep her dignity.

“Are ya alright, miss?” I ask, actual concern in my tone.

“Mary Rennie,” she replies with a smile as she smooths out her dress. “And yes. Thank you very much. Didn't I see you earlier with that Godless scoundrel earlier?”

Tipping my hat out from my face and dropping my cigarette into the mud. I nod with a short gruff laugh, “yes, ma'am.”

“You are a good person. The Red Hook burnt down an entire community simply because most of them were free coloreds from the Confederate American States,” she squeezes my arm before looking across the street towards the smithy.

Where the man I saw earlier today waves at her. She blows the man a kiss and a smile creeps across my features.

“I'm not a good person,” I let out a sigh after a moment, “but ya are welcome.”

“A saint can't catch a sinner like that. Even the holiest of all sins,” Mary gives me a pat on the arm before she excuses herself. Not worrying about her clothes as she crosses the road after a wagon laden with kegs passes by.

Strolling along the wooden walkway towards the saloon. Past the doctor's office and around the small nickelodeon. With the church situated right beside it undoubtedly shows mostly religious films. Though, a print for a new western starring the wonderful Rita Davis and David Gable piques my curiosity.

“Six-thirty and nine-thirty every day but Sunday,” I recite the words on the poster to myself. “One flip of a card determines the fate of Nuevo Peubla. David Gable and Rita Davis in The Maverick.”

Glancing around me to see if anyone was paying attention. Fighting a blush from rising on my face, for some unknown reason. Shaking it off as a crack of thunder pierces the area. A gust of wind threatens for a moment but only for a moment. With a fortifying breath. I make my way to my destination.

The faded paint on the saloon along with several scratch marks around the door and the columns show to me that this place can get rowdy. Like most saloons in towns on the edge of the world. A couple of cowboys and workers stand around. Drinking, smoking, and chatting while enjoying the comfortable temperature without getting wet. A couple of them stare at me as I walk by and push open the swinging wooden doors.

A long bar occupies the entire far wall with some tables off to the side where a couple of women chat with one another. Clad in nice dresses and wearing far too much make-up. It is easy to see what side business this place runs. As an older woman stands right above them on the second floor. In similar dress as the others, but she casts an appraising eye and I would guess her to be the madame of the saloon. Whilst an upbeat melody plays from the small piano as a young drunk man plays and sings bawdy lyrics with a couple of other men and women with him.

“What can I getcha?” The derby-wearing man behind the bar smiles at me from under a bushy mustache.

“Serve food?” I pull out a cigarette and light it up.

“I got some stew on and some bread, but also got pork and beans,” the man answers with a happy tone. “Canned stuff. Pretty good.”

I doubt I could finish a whole lot of food, but my stomach growls at me.

“Let me get the stew and bread. A beer, please.”

“As you say, madam,” he pulls a pint glass from behind him before filling it up from an old wooden tap. “That'll be two dollars.”

Placing three dollar coins on the bar, “that's for ya.”

The beer is smooth, a little bitter, but refreshing, and very much something I welcome. In a few minutes, a bowl full of piping hot stew is placed in front of me alongside a hunk of bread. With a quick thank you, I take a bite of the stew and follow it up with some beer. Forcing a content sound to emit from the bottom of my throat.

“Yer a bounty hunter, eh?” The bartender polishes a glass seemingly more for something to do than something that needs to be done.

“I suppose everyone peeked at me as I brought the trash in.”

“Aye, that we did,” he places the glass down as I take another bite. “Now, hunter, my name is Levi Cox and it is a pleasure to have ya here in Cactus Flats. All of us hope ya will stay and help procure more bad guys and gals.”

Finishing my meal, he takes the dirty plate from me, I light up a cigarette. Giving a slight nod, “as long as it pays. Yes, sir, I will.”

“A true mercenary.”

“I make no apologies for wantin' to get paid.”

“And you shouldn't, miss...?”

Tapping the cigarette into the ashtray. I offer the man my hand of which he shakes with a firm grip.

“I'm Tegan, and it is a pleasure.”

He nods, “yes a pleasure. In another life, I was a hunter as well.”

Leaning close, his voice just loud enough to be heard, says, “the Sheriff is lookin' for someone to...well it would take a couple of hours for a decent hunter. My assumption is that ya are beyond decent. Am I right? Might hafta prove yerself first, though.”

Nodding, I finish the beer and thank the man for his insight. Heading out into the rain again. I glance over at the sheriff's office to see a couple of lawmen talking to one another as they watch the gallows being built. Stepping into the muddy road, I stroll over to the men. The two staring at me as I approach.

“The Sapphic bounty hunter wishes to grace us with her presence,” the older of the trio bait me into an argument.

But I don't let it affect me with a reply, “heard you are looking for another ne'er-do-well to be brought to justice.”

Sheriff O'Day opens the front door and tells the two men to go back to their duties before waving me inside.

“Sorry 'bout those apes,” O'Day gestures towards the door. “Some people don't know how to speak to a lady.”

“Oh, Sheriff, I'm far from a lady,” I reply looking over at a wooden board mounted to the wall. Where a handbill sits. Taking it off the wall, I give it a quick glance. “Renee Helfinger? That's the quarry?”

He sits down behind his desk and pours two measures of what looks to be a type of whiskey before offering me one. The fiery liquid is welcoming and causes me to relax even further than I already was.

“Yes ma'am,” he replies looking on the papers over his desk. “She's a poisoner of her husband and kids.”

“Damn,” I hiss through my teeth.

“Alive only. Do not kill her. She's up at Beech Creek Ranch. No one knows ya are coming. Bring her back and we will mark yer return with a celebration and a hanging,” the Sheriff stands up and walks me to the door. “See ya soon.”

Looking down at the handbill and reading that it only pays fifty dollars. Not a great payday, but not bad for easy work. Wishing the Sheriff a good day. I make my way off to the stables to acquire my horse. Who snorts at me and trots happily over.

“Miss me, girl?” I call out, giving her an apple I pull out from my satchel. “Ready to work again?”

She just returns a snort causing me to chuckle before I climb on top of her. Patting the horse on her neck. I spur her on toward the ranch I saw when I came in this morning. So, at least I know I can find my way there and back. Lighting a cigarette as Iona trots us toward our destination. I don't even try to hide. Hoping the intimidating sight of myself will get her to submit. Just wish I still had that bandolier that I got off the Del Lobos member.

“Fucking bitch,” I whisper to myself as I think of Rose and her goddamn idea. Not really her fault but she is the one to blame. Why I had to run. Why we all had to run. Why for a bit we went from bounty hunters to outlaws and back.

As I came up along the long fence that surrounds the ranch. A herd of horses races along the perimeter as if playing with one another in the mud. Thankful that the rain has stopped, yet I doubt we've seen the last of it today. The pasture goes on as far as the eye can see until it ends at several large barns for the horses and the cows in the far-field. Several field hands, despite the bad weather, are repairing fences, tending the animals, and all the work that needs to be done. The real workers and back bone of the Rio Grande.

“Whoa!” A man steps up in the middle of the road with a hand forward and a repeater leaning on his shoulder. “Ya here for Renee?

Putting my right hand on the grip of the revolver in my main holster.

“What's it to ya?” I reply, calm and monotone.

He studies me for a moment with a critical eye. Running two fingers over his mustache and giving it a bit of a twist. After a sigh he steps aside, saying, “she's kin but she did what they say she did. Go on. No one will stop ya. Just don't kill her. Please.”

“I have no intentions, sir. Just got to bring her in. The sheriff can't do it hisself. For some reason.”

The man chuckles, “Sheriff O'Day is a good person but lazy and comfortable. Get on with it.”

“Thank ya,” I say before spurring Iona on past the man into the ranch.

“Last cabin back near the creek. We got her locked in,” the man sighs and walks off back into the ranch. Whistling to himself tunelessly.

Despite the stares and the feeling of being unwelcome here. No one says anything, nor do they try and stop me. I don't want to have to kill anyone today. Not for fifty dollars. Though, I have killed for far less. It adds up but she better give me no problems. Thankfully, I doubt she will be locked up already.

The smell of freshwater from the creek adding to the earthiness of the wet ground creates an aroma I love. Stopping Iona as I climb off the saddle. Pulling out one of my revolvers as I step up to the small cabin. The windows are boarded up, but stepping up to one I can peek through the cracks. A woman in a sky-blue dress sits in front of a desk jotting something down in a notebook.

Knocking on the door, I call out, “Miss Helfinger. You are wanted for two murders. I'm here to arrest ya by the authority of the city-state of Rio Grande. Please, make it easy for both of us. Will ya make it easy?”

“I don't have the key,” a meek voice comes from behind the door.

“Stand back,” I order, and after a moment I shoot the lock of the door breaking the mechanism. “Now, are ya going to behave?”

“Yes, ma'am,” she looks down at her hands before offering them to me. 

Tying them tight, I help her get onto Iona before climbing on myself. The ride back is uneventful. Both of us quiet, and thankful for it. She seems more than ready to accept whatever punishment comes her way. I don't ask her why she did what she did. Because I honestly could not care less. It is an easy payday and will make me feel less bad about splurging a bit in the saloon tonight. A little anyways.

“Good work, miss Tegan,” the sheriff welcomes me as I lead the woman into the cell beside The Red Hook.

“Oh, aren't ya a pretty one,” The Red Hook leers at the middle-aged woman.

“Shut up.” I growl as I take my payment from O'Day.

“Did ya see the gallows? We'll be having a hanging here in an hour or so. Make sure ya attend, ya hear?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” I reply, lighting a cigarette as I step outside under the awning as the rain has picked up again. Yet looking to the side it appears the gallows is damn near complete. We'll have entertainment tonight, for sure.

Thunder cracks through the area as a slow drizzle falls upon most of the town's citizens. Standing in front of the gallows as The Red Hook stands in front of everyone. A few shouts encouraging the display comes from those gathered. Looking over the crowd I notice the young woman from the general store. With a grim look on her face that catches me by surprise. She doesn't even notice I am here. No, like everyone else. Their focus is on Marshall Charles Marston an old grizzled lawman whose voice booms through despite the weather.

“It is our duty as law-abiding citizens to punish those that break the laws of the great, free Rio Grande. Freedom means that any man or woman, white or colored, yer beliefs, or what ya do, ya can do it. As long as ya don't infringe on someone else. This man here has spent too long terrorizin' and profitin' off the good people of the state. Today we enact justice befitting the crime. The Red Hook, Christian name of Lars Ulbrich, I condemn ya to hang until ya are dead. Any last words?”

The criminal spits toward the crowd, before cursing, “to the whore that got me. See ya in Hell.”

I stare at the man with a coldness I've picked up over the years. The Marshall pulls a lever which opens the door under the man's feet. Dropping him down and instantly breaking his neck as there is no struggle. Once the most feared man in this entire region. Now nothing but a spoiled sack of grain.

“Good work there, hunter,” the familiar lisp-impaired voice of the woman from the general store brings me back to reality.

“Yeah, he deserved it,” I reply, looking over at the saloon for a moment. “Want to get a drink? On me.”

Sara looks toward the store then back at me, “let me lock up and I will join ya there.”

After such an event the moms bring their kids home with stories of how that is where you will be if you don't behave. The menfolk, and the single women, congregate at the saloon as raucous laughter echoes throughout the building to a bawdy song.

“That's Madame Tabitha Valentine,” Sara points out halfway through our first beer.

An older woman clad in a red dress with black lace wearing a wide-brim velvet hat with a feather climbing out the back of the hat. A bit on the heavy-set side showing a life of comfort and luxury. More than likely years after working on her back to get to this point. She catches Sara and me looking and gives us a smile with a small wave.

“She's probably the richest person in town. Not including the rancher,” she adds, turning back to look at me.

Almost as if she is staring at me causing my eyebrow to quirk in curiosity.

“Something wrong?”

Sara shakes her head, “no, but I bet ya've had some adventures.”

A small chuckle emerges from me after I finish the rest of my first beer. Ordering another round for the both of us.

“I suppose so. Never really feels like that,” I shrug and thank Levi for the beers. “It's more just the desire to live. Not to mention money.”

“More to life than money.'

“Yeah, but,” I begin, snuffing out my cigarette, “it does help to enjoy life a bit more. Otherwise, how could I afford to buy drinks with a new friend?”

“And ya are good at what ya do, it seems,” Sara's face has begun to tinge pink with the alcohol. Obvious she doesn't drink too much, or just not tolerant to its effects.

Shrugging, “if nothing else. I am a survivor. But what about ya? I mean, I noticed the books in the store. Ya read, right? A lot more adventures in the books, I'm told, and safer to experience that way.”

Sara shakes her head with a snorting laugh. Lighting her own cigarette, a sigh escapes her lips along with some smoke.

“No, I mean yes, I love to read and always have. It stokes the flames of my wanderlust, though, more than satiate it.”

We spend most of the night talking, and as we drink more beer it becomes a lot more comfortable. Talking about my past, at least what I want to share with her. She doesn't need to know how I got to Rio Grande or why. While I listen intently to her talk about how boring her life is, and how many people The Red Hook killed. When she claims I am a hero. A deep blush covers my face, and thankful the alcohol has already turned my face crimson. Soon after she thanks me for the drinks and she walks me to the inn. Where we part and I find myself easily drifting off to sleep.

“Tegan,” the sheriff calls out to me as he exits his office.

The bright blue sky leaves no obstructions for the sun to shine its absurdly bright rays upon Cactus Flats. My eyes still haven't adjusted as I stand across the way from him.

“Sheriff,” I say, walking across the almost dry dirt road. “What can I do for ya?”

“A moment of yer morning, please,” O'Day beckons to me as he steps back into the depths of his office.

Without another word, I step inside.

“Close the door behind ya. If ya please,” his voice is less genial than before. “Don't latch it. That idiot deputy of mine might forget which fuckin' key it is.”

Gesturing toward the old wooden chair across from his desk. Stained from years of use, and scratch marks behind it definitely give a sign of how heavy this piece of furniture is. Filling the quiet room as I pull it out. It takes a moment for him to start speaking as I make myself comfortable.

“Colm Smithfield. Heard of him?” It seems more a rhetorical question than anything else.

Everyone has heard of Colm Smithfield, though. Even the fancy blue bloods on the east coast have read of his legendary exploits through the penny novels. No doubt playing up his outlaw image more than the brute savage that the monster actually is.

“They say he is personally responsible for raiding and raping an entire Comanche village back when the US Military wanted to move all the Indians off their land,” I recite as if from a school book.

He gives a slight nod, “those poor bastards. Can't git a break, but aye that is true. Thankful that along with the Apache, Puebla, and us living here pushed all that...civilization away.”

“What are ya after, sheriff?” I ask, striking a match on my pants before lighting one of those lovely French cigarettes I got from Sara yesterday. “I'd need an entire posse to git this asshole.”

The Sheriff waves his hand dismissively. With a grunt, he says, “if'n ya did then he would've tucked tail. Like the yellow bastard that he is. No, besides...” His sentence trails off as a thought overcomes him. With a deep breath, the man continues, “we need to find exactly where he is at. What kind of ne'er-do-wells he has taken up with now. And, what in the Good Lord's wisdom, he has up his sleeve right now.”

“So the offer is as such,” he drawls on after a moment. “I want ya to find out where Colm is hiding and with whom. To just outright kill the bastard. Bring me his corpse and ya will get the full handbill.”

“His bounty is north of five thousand,” I almost drop my cigarette, but my brain turns back on rather quick. “Ya do realize he has his own personal army? Or always did. If'n ya believe the stories.”

“No doubt he has one nowadays. Just hasn't been seen by anyone reputable for quite some time. Maybe if'n ya lucky, he might already be dead. Then I'd pay ya for the corpse and the information.”

I scoff, “no one has ever been that lucky, sheriff.”

“I'll give ya carte blanche to do as ya see fit.”

“Can you give me some time to...ponder this?”

The man inclines his head in thought for a moment. His fingers steepled in front of his face. After a deep sigh, he says, “are ya doing it?”

Snuffing out my cigarette with a long breath. Standing up, “ya'll have yer answer by sundown.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Tegan, I don't think I've had the pleasure,” a man way past his prime but it is obvious that he is still not a man to trifle with. “Marshall Charles Winslow.”

I give the man a firm shake which seems to lighten his mood a bit.

“Please have a seat. I asked for ya for a reason. Whiskey?” He asks but doesn't wait for my reply. Pouring a measure of the umber liquid for the both of us. “So, I won't bullshit ya. I know that the Texans aren't ya biggest fan right now.”

Of course, he would do his own leg work. Taking the whiskey, I enjoy a long sip. Thanking him for the libation.

“I'm impressed, sir,” I say with a flat, monotone to my voice. “Do ya intend to slap some iron on my wrists? Send me back over the border?”

This almost has the older man laughing, but alas all it elicits is a soft chuckle.

“No, ma'am, I don't think I am.”

“Then, Marshall, what can I do for ya?” I ask after a moment.

He ponders his words for a moment. Sipping on his own fiery glass of courage. Before he utters, “kill Colm. Not just for me, but for the entirety of Rio Grande. And, if'n that doesn't, um, persuade ya, my friend. Then on top of the five thousand dollars the state is offering. I'll...well, I can make all that nonsense in Texas disappear. Peterson Trading Post will be poof! Just a memory for ya and the unfortunates involved.”

“No lawmen or hunters will chase me?” I ask. Not even trying to hide my past. “And if I do this for ya. Cactus Flats cannot know what I used to be. Always been a bounty hunter, but wasn't always meritorious service.”

A hard stare as he finishes his whiskey. I do the same as I wait for the hardened man to finally say something. Grabbing a thick but short cigar from a drawer within his desk. The old lawman inhales of it deeply a few times to get it lit.

“Here in Rio Grande, Miss. We don't care much for what someone used to be. No,” he shifts in his chair and lets out another sigh. Forcing smoke from his nose. “All we care about is what ya are now. No need to answer now but ya did tell the Sheriff ya would inform him by the end of the day.”

“I am a woman of my word.”

“See that ya are. Thank ya for yer time,” he dismisses me with a wave of his hand.

Taking the handbill off the wooden board near the front door. I fold it and stuff it into my satchel. Before I exit out into the hot early afternoon. The bright blue sky hangs empty above with nary a breeze to even take a little of the edge off.

It is damn near an impossible task to do with a well-armed group of hunters. Let alone one hunter who isn't that familiar with the lay of the land in this area. A part of me wishes to head to the saloon, but no, that is just a waste of time at this point. Which I have precious little of right now. To consider the proposition in front of me. Perhaps they knew I was coming into the area. Maybe they were tipped off by the Texans but doubtful. No citizen of Rio Grande and Texan could ever agree on anything. Let alone help one another or show professional courtesy.

The turmoil in my mind isn't helped further by the now-familiar sight of the young shopkeeper Sara walking from the stables with a load of boxes. Stacked high just below her eye level. It seemingly takes a level of dexterity and skill to avoid the uneven sidewalk. The step down to the dry dirt road. Then as she ascends the steps up to the general store. I am there to help get the door for her.

“Lemme git that for ya,” I try my best to not sound as gruff as I tend to.

“Oh, such a gentleman ya are,” Sara quips as she deftly moves into the meticulous shop.

“I wouldn't go that far,” I retort. Lighting the younger woman a cigarette before I light my own.

Her face hardens for a moment as she eyes me up and down. Feeling like an insect under the scrutiny of a being a lot more intelligent than myself.

“So, the talk of the town is that ya are going after the big bad Colm. The goddamn boogyman. The butcher of Rio Grande,” Sara's voice is low, almost dangerously so. “Not to mention they are saying ya are too yellow to go after him.”

I scoff, “I think I am too stupid to not turn down such a payday. Might need to write a will if I take the job.”

“Do you want to know why I am running the store instead of seeking out my fortunes overseas? Perhaps finding adventure anywhere but here.”

Exhaling, I nod my head, “Colm?”

“It might not look it, but this town has suffered under his mere presence. Just the ghost of that God-forsaken barbarian is enough to send people scurrying,” she takes a moment to gather her composure. “When I was barely old enough to ride a horse. There came Colm's men to demand his tribute of whatever-the-fuck they could get. My father was the only one with the goddamn mettle to say, 'no!' to these...these raiders. He stopped them from taking my mother, myself, and from burning the shop down. B-but,” once again it seems to take an eternity for her to regain herself. Yet, I don't rush her. Not at all. I've heard many stories like this before. Each time it does hit me in a spot. A spot that I thought I'd long forgotten. That is until I hear her tale.

“But, it cost my pa his life. My mother ran the store until her 'ritis kicked in, and the years of hardening that this country will do to ya. I didn't want to disappoint my pa, nor did I want my ma to suffer either. It isn't like I am saddened by having to run the store, nor are there any regrets. Just wondering what could have been. Beyond that, I pray for my pa's soul every Sunday. I for, gosh, a decade now. All because of that good-for-nothin' Colm Smithfield.”

Snuffing out my cigarette. I bite my bottom lip, a habit when I am in actual deep thought. Yet, there is nothing to think about. Either I will do it, or I won't, and though I appreciate Sara opening up to me. Guilt usually doesn't work on me. Usually.

“I am sorry for yer loss,” I finally say as I watch the smaller woman fight back the tears that threaten at the edge of her eyes.

“I am far from the only poor sod who has had their entire lives turned topsy-turvy by this abomination of a man.”

Her words ring true to me as I stand behind the church and the holy grounds. Near an old wooden fence with several beer and soda bottles lined up on the railing. A soft breeze brings upon it the almost sweet smell of the desert. Something I have always loved. Something that helps calm the turmoil in my mind.

With practiced ease, I pull out my revolver off my left hip. In the single, smooth motion I squeeze the trigger. Breaking the first bottle and ringing out through the big empty. Alerting the whole town to what I am doing. Usually not something I desire but not too worried about it right now. Easily I break the rest of the bottles in quick succession.

“How ya doin', gunslinger?” Levi, the old man from the bar, strolls up to me.

“Contemplatin',” is my sole reply.

“Aye, I can definitely see that. The sound of broken glass can be quite soothin' to the soul,” he agrees as he hobbles a bit over to a nearby stump. Sitting upon it with a deep groan from the depths of his soul. “Scared?”

“Scared of what, sir?”

“Colm Smithfield.”

An uncharacteristic sneer comes across my features while a mirthless chuckle utters from my throat.

“Am I scared of Colm Smithfield? No, sir. In fact, not a single person scares me,” I answer as I holster my revolver. “Not a single person scares me. However, I doubt that it will just be me taken on this old man one-on-one.”

He gives out a short chuckle that descends into a hacking cough. After a moment, he says, “smart girl.”

“Girl?”

“I would have considered ya the biggest fool this side of the Mississippi if ya weren't. No, fear is good. Especially with a quarry such as good ole Colm. Have ya ever taken on a job this big 'fore?”

“Who said I accepted the handbill?” I lean against the closest post and cross my arms in defiance.

“You turnin' down a chance at all that money?” He cocks an eyebrow. “Hell, if'n ya ask me, and ya didn't, that's plenty enough money for one to truly escape their past.”

Rolling my eyes, I say with more than just a hint of exasperation, “what do ya know of the past? Did the Marshall tell everyone?”

“Nay, hunter, but every bounty seeker, hell even lawman, has a past of some sort. I don't care, nor do I judge. I rode with Jesse Kaufman some twenty-odd years ago. No judgment, hunter, in fact quite the opposite. Ya got talent. Ya shootin' is as accurate as I've ever seen. Bringin' in that piece of shit. The Red Hook,” Levi sneers at the mere mention of the name. “It shows ya got moxie, kid.”

“Moxie won't keep me from being riddled with bullets. In fact, quite the opposite, I'd imagine.”

“So, I was a Navy Man for the Confederates back in my younger days. Back when I was a lot more angry, aye? Once I got out I was full of piss and vigor, and usually rum,” the man laughs whilst slapping his knee.

Lighting up a cigarette, I add, “my father was a Navy Man. I prefer stable ground beneath my boots.”

“At my age, aye. But, I got into a bad row of luck, ya see? Ended up with the McMahon-Buchanan Gang near Flagstaff. Bad stuff. Bad times. I don't think the Lord is waiting for me. No, no. Yet, as I got into my twenty-fifth year I was told to do something I would never forget. I can still hear their screams as the church burned. I left that night. Crossed to Mexico for a few years. Helped take down the first incarnation of the awful Del Lobos. Did some other smaller work to take down other ne'er-do-wells until I finally moved here.”

“Had a wife, a daughter. Even a great community. Was even there when Rick Clements got shot. I winged the bastard that shot him. We strung him up right then and there,” his voice hardens for a moment. “Colm didn't take my family. The sins of my past did. Yet, he has cost many a family. Though I don't know the tally, but perhaps that can help ya deal with the sins of ya own past.”

Tossing the cigarette to the side. I contemplate his words before letting out a sigh.

“Perhaps. Sorry to hear about ya family.”

“Worst thing Molly every did was end up fallin' in love with me.”

Looking back towards the town as a dark cloud now looms on the horizon. The sheriff's office seems to stand off by itself. Though, most assuredly, it doesn't.

“I'll see ya soon, sir,” I tip my trilby hat to the man.

Making my way back into town as the wind has picked up. Causing dust devils to form on the streets for a quick moment. Sheriff O'Day stands leaning against the railing with a half-smoked cigarette between his lips. The man's hair whipping a little as a gust blows through the street.

“Tegan, have ya returned to me with good news?” He asks as the man's muddy brown eyes peer into me.

“That I have, sheriff. If'n ya want Colm Smithfield dealt with. Then I am yer hunter. I'll leave town at first light tomorrow. Is there anything more ya can tell me?”

“There's an old man that everyone calls Bones. A blasphemous, foul, evil little creature if'n I've ever met one. He's a grave robber but I doubt that's even close to the worst of his sins. No, he used to ride with Colm some seasons ago. Out by the old mission – San Maria de Cristo. Or some shit like that. Ya will find him. Hard to miss. Ya will find it in an old oil town. Dried up now, though.”

“Thanks, sheriff. Next, ya see me. I will have the miscreant,” without another word. I leave to head back to my room at the inn.

My sleep is restless and my past comes back to me in a way that I never thought it would. For years I have hidden this deep down. Tried to forget about it. Now it is back like it happened yesterday.

Eighteen years ago outside of Amarillo, Texas 

It's been years since I was left at the orphanage with nary a penny to my name or more than the clothes on my back. Now at seventeenI have been released from my captivity. With no intention to ever sell my body at one of the many whorehouses that dot this republic. Nor do I wish to end up just like a house mother, midwife, or even a ranch hand. This is a cattle town after all. Plenty of work to be done. Smelly work. So, with the twenty dollars that I was given I buy a gun, a holster and gun belt, as well as some clothes that really makes me feel like a new person. Even if I just look like your average frontier's woman. I am no longer the Tegan of yesterday, or even a few hours ago. A new woman now stands in her place.

The local saloon is full tonight. Full of revelers just on the porch as I step up to the swinging doors. A lively tune plays from the inside, and I see a weird mix of men clad in trail clothes and leathers. Women in way too much makeup and dresses that show off their best assets. Gentlemen in finery smoking cigars, drinking whiskey and getting lively over a game of cards off in the corner. But my attention goes to the bar. I want my first drink. Another huge milestone to mark off my “Being an Adult” list.

“Ya look a little lost, girly. Is that yer daddy's gun?” A woman who seems, for all intents and purposes, the same age as I am. But, it is more than obvious this ragged brunette was a lot more mature than I am.

“And ya look like the model for Wheeler & Rowson's rugged wear for the independent woman,” I retort. Not feeling as clever or witty as I thought I would but there I am.

“Don't be weird,” she gestures at the stool beside her. “Pull up a seat, pardner. I'm Emily Rose but ya can call me Emy. Where ya from? Two whiskeys, Ryan.”

Climbing up to sit beside her, I reply, “I'm not sure where I was born. I grew up north of El Paso, but just got out of the orphanage in town. Pretty sure I'm Texan, though.”

“Thrown to the wolves, eh?” She places some coins on the bar top and slides a whiskey over to me. “Drink to a new friendship?”

I've never even had a sip of alcohol in my life. The nuns wouldn't allow it at all. They barely tolerated us smoking, and that depended on which nun caught you.

“Cheers,” Emy tips her hat up to show her features. Young, for sure, with a gently curving jawline. A jagged scar mars her button nose. While her eyes are a bright brown, the telltale dark bags indicate how tired and weary she actually is.

Now or never. “Salud,” I raise the glass, and like in the nickelodeon of the westerns, I down the entire contents in one go.

The fiery liquid burns the entire way down to a hollow pit within my stomach. One I didn't even know existed until just now. It doesn't take long at all for a heady, cloudy feeling to overcome my senses. We spend the evening drinking, chatting, dancing at some point – I think anyways. My memory gets really fuzzy on the details. An amazing blur that I could easily say is the happiest, most joyful, I've ever been in my entire life. Waking up the next morning with the worst headache I've ever had. In a room that I don't know how I got to or even paid for since I was dead broke. The woman from last night snoring softly beside me. While a ray of early sunlight streams in to illuminate her beautiful figure in an almost halo or a silhouette. Something I didn't directly notice when I met her. I guess with all the road clothes off she is a lot softer than I would have thought.

It takes a bit of that morning coldness to make my brain realize that I am wearing nothing at all. Just like my snoring companion. As naked as the day the Lord made me. Grabbing my clothes, I am fully dressed when the realization that something huge happened last night. A true turning page. Something I would hear all the boys talk about in far too gross and lewd detail. Still, the flashes of memory turn into a more clear picture of what went on last night.

Looking at myself in the mirror. All I can still see is the kid I was. But, I am brought back to reality as Emy's groggy voice breaks the silence with a sleepy yawn.

“Well, good morning, beautiful,” Emy sits up with the blanket tight on her chest. As if I haven't seen her in her complete glory.

“Good morning to ya,” I reply, glancing at her over my shoulder. In the sober light of day and without her rugged, tough-looking clothes on. The softness of her figure and how she looks right now. Absolutely stunning despite admiring her just a bit ago. “Forgive my ignorance.”

“Nothing wrong with ignorance.”

“Does this make us, well as the boys would put it, girlfriends?” I turn to look at her. A bemused expression colors her face.

“Oh, Tegan,” is all she says.

By the time the sun hangs high in the sky. Emy rips off a piece of paper from a wooden board nailed to the side of the sheriff's office. She scans it for a moment.

“Can ya read?” She asks whilst handing it to me.

“Bill McGowen wanted for conspiracy to commit a train robbery. Three counts of bank robbery. Murder. Terrorizing and molestation of the state's citizens. Six hundred dollars for him and his three men,” I slowly read out loud. “Dead or alive. Preferred alive. Last seen at Hangman's Rock.”

“Ya said ya needed money, and well, ya get paid. Plus, are a hero. Not to mention. I gotta say, it is nice bringing these assholes down to their knees,” Emy explains as we stroll toward the stables. “Usually I run with a posse but they are on the other side of the republic. So, it is just us on this one.”

“I've never fired a gun before.”

“So, ta long iron on ya hip is just for show?” Emy mocks a little. I have to push down the bit of anxiety and nerves that want to spill out of me.

“Well, no. I was hopin' to learn from someone, actually,” I say feeling a bit sheepish.

“Yer in luck, my cute friend. It is going to be a few days 'fore we reach Hangman's Rock anyways. So, I'll show ya a few pointers.”

The next day as the sun dips toward the horizon. Making camp just under a natural rock arch. Where an old prospector from decades before set up himself only to die. Alone. His skeleton decorates the area. As well as his tattered clothes. Along with other long-forgotten possessions

“Musta been a helluva a drinker,” Emy kneels down beside the man where several empty bottles lay discarded. “Tennessee Whiskey. Rum from Cuba.”

Stepping up beside her. I kneel down to look at the skeleton himself. Only to notice a couple of birdshot lead balls lodged into his ribs. Maybe he wasn't alone after all.

“The drink nor the elements killed 'em,” I say, holding my jaw tight for a moment. “Took a load of birdshot to his chest.”

Emy seems deep in thought for a moment. Before standing up and tipping her hat upwards.

“I think ya right. Probably a huntin' party went wrong. But, we can use the bottles. Got ta get ya gunslingin' skills up ta snuff,” she grabs a few bottles before handing them to me. “Place these on ta big rock over t'ere.”

After placing them. I take several paces back to where Emy is waiting for me.

“The quick draw and fire will save yer life more than anythin' else. Ya need to get yer revolver from its holster. Then reliably hit ta target as well. Lemme show ya.”

Emy stands square with the rock and its bottles. In one swift movement, she takes her own revolver out. Pulling the trigger at the same time. Just as soon as she does one of the bottles explodes into pieces as the distinctive sound of a gunshot rings throughout the open area.

“Wow,” is all I can utter.

After just a little encouragement. I take the same stance as she did. My feet wider than my shoulders. Fixing my gaze upon the glass bottle right beside the one that was there but is nothing but shards now. Mimicking my new friend in every way I can. With a deep breath. I unholster my revolver then pull the trigger once it is level. In a moment of divine clarity. I holster my revolver and repeat my actions one right after the other.

“Goddamn,” Emy trails off as she walks up to the rock. “All six in a row. Not beginner's luck. Not at all.”

Every target she puts up for me I shoot. Either from the hip or with a moment to concentrate my aim. After some time she puts the man's old rugged satchel up on the rock. Walking over to her horse Ted. She pulls out the rather short carbine lever-action repeater.

“See if'n ya can hit the toggle,” Emy offers the repeater to me.

Taking the gun. I look down its sights for a moment before turning my attention back to the satchel. It is easy to hit the metal toggle. Easy to hit the same target again and again. Until the clasp is nothing but bent, distorted metal.

“Shit,” Emy utters.

A couple more days of riding and as the sun descends upon the desolate countryside. In the distance is a continuous plum of smoke. Someone is making camp off in the distance. The large solitary mini-mountain that comprises of Hangman's Rock sits off from the camp itself.

“That must be 'em,” Emy takes out her binoculars. After a moment she adds, “aye. That is Bill McGowen and what is left of his gang.”

“So...I'm assumin' this won't be a peaceful arrest.”

Emy stuffs her binoculars back into her bag. Nodding, she replies, “never is. There's six of 'em. Lookin' like two of them are sleepin'. One is on watch whilst the other three are drinkin', eatin', whatever 'round the fire.”

“How we doin' this, then?”

“Well, we have surprise on our side. Which is always good ta have. So,” she seems to be wrecking her brain on how she wants to do this. “We're goin' ta pinch dem in. If'n ya can creep up to the far side of Hangman's Rock. I will come at dem from ta front. Find a nice spot ta take cover. Maybe behind that old upturned wagon. Kill everyone but that old fella. He's our target. Our payday. Line up ya first shot then I will follow ya.”

Not that I knew any better, but it did seem like a solid plan. Emy takes the repeater. Hands me a box of bullets. Wishes me luck and promises that she will see me on the other side. One way or another.

The most terrifying and dreadful moment of my short life up to this moment occurs. As I creep through the brush. Behind random trees, and darting from rock to rock. Until I am on the far side of Hangman's Rock. Where I can even hear the men talking about their last haul. How funny it was that the old man begged for his family's life yet no one was spared. As they hoot, holler, and laugh about the most godawful things. Yes, sir. These are barely above animals, and at least animals are honorable in that they do what they do by nature and not for pleasure or greed.

I'm just close enough that I can take out the man keeping watch. His eyes in the direction of where Emy is supposed to be. Perhaps she wasn't as sneaky as she thought she was. However, no mind. With a squeeze of the trigger. The man falls forward ever so slightly. Perhaps not dead but he is of no threat to us. I don't have long to revel or loathe myself after taking my first life. No matter, though, not like these men are actually humans.

From then it becomes a quick shit show where Emy and I gain the upper hand. She takes out the two men sitting beside our target. I get the other two coming out of a shared lean-to tent. Before McGowen can shout or curse or anything of the sort. Emy is striding up with her revolver in one hand, the repeater in the other. She places a well-aimed shot into his right leg. I am up on his side and kicking his revolver away. Taking the rope off my hip. I am able to easily hogtie him despite the struggling.

“One less piece o' shit litterin' the world,” Emy hums as she is looking through the pockets of the dead men.

“Yer like a vulture. Ya goddamn bitch,” the outlaw cries out. He gets a swift kick from me in response.

“Well, where ya and all ya friends are goin' They don't need it. 'Sides, not like ya, or dem, deserve any respect. Now shut up, or I'll make it so ya can never talk 'gain, a'right?” My partner's voice goes low, deep, almost like a mean dog's growl.

My eyes open back into Cactus Flats. Even before the sun has had a chance to rise. A coughing fit overtakes me for a moment. Following it up by spitting something gross on the wooden floor. My mouth tastes like an ashtray and it isn't until the small glass of water from the little pitcher upon the small table that I get some relief. Checking my timepiece, and knowing the sun won't be up for at least an hour. I climb out of bed and grab my oldest revolver. The one I got so long ago. Still fires true though it has definitely seen its fair share of hardships.

The inn is empty except for the night watchman. Whose nose is buried deep in a newspaper from the capital. Once I am out in the fresh air. The smell of rain lingers in the air. Heralding what is to come soon enough. A deluge that this area tends to get during this time of year. The hammering of steel and wood still fills the air as the workshop at the other end of the town begins its long day of production. While the rest of the town sleeps uneasily. However, the woman I didn't expect to see out this late. Strolls down the road tossing a small rock up and down. Perhaps restlessness exudes beyond me tonight.

“Hey, gunslinger,” Sara's voice cuts through the darkness. “Need supplies?”

“So ya heard?”

“It's a small town, gunslinger,” she rests her hand upon her hip. “How long do ya expect to be gone? I have plenty of ammo, dried and canned food, anything ya want is yers.”

Cocking half a smile, I reply, “aye, I will definitely need supplies before I head out. Shouldn't ya be in bed?”

“I've been thinking about stuff. My father. How my mother is going to react when ya come back with him. How I might feel. I am hopin' for some catharsis, but I dunno if someone else dyin' would do so. But, above all that. Well, I'd be lyin' if I said I wasn't thinking about ya either.”

“Me? Why me?” I am actually astonished that she was thinking about me. There hasn't been someone that has caught my eye since that night with Emy. I suppose we were on the road together for so long our relationship was implied, but is it over now? We definitely didn't end it on a great basis.

A large smile crosses her face. She replies, “why wouldn't I? The only person I've had an intelligent and enjoyable evening at the saloon with? Ya intrigue me, gunslinger.”

“Hah, me? Miss, I'm a simple woman.”

“Nah, never.”


	4. Chapter 4

“That should be enough to last me for a week,” I strap the last satchel to the back of Iona. Plenty of dried food, canteens, and some other sundries and random bits and bobs I might need for the upcoming trek.

“Oh! Don't forget this!” Sara pulls out another pack of the French cigarettes she gave me a few days back. “And consider it all an investment, if'n ya will. I know ya don't want charity. The whole city-state needs Colm dead. So, I can say I helped stop 'em.”

A heavy wind blows in as it precedes the heavy, dark clouds. Most assuredly I will not make it far without getting drenched. Yet, that's the price one pays for such a life.

“Thank ya so much, Sara. I appreciate the supplies. Everythin', ya know?”

“Just get him. I know ya can.”

“How do ya know that? We did just meet recently,” I light up a cigarette despite the rain.

She gives a self-satisfied chuckle. “Let's just say I gots a good feelin'. I know it isn't goin' to be safe, but please be as safe as ya can. Good luck.”

Grabbing both ends of the saddle. I hoist myself up with the help of the stirrup.

“See ya soon, ma'am,” I tip my hat. Before spurring on Iona, “hiyah!”

As if she knew exactly what is going on. My horse sprints off toward the southwest. The wind rushing past me as this fantastic beast instinctively dodges cactus, rocks, anything that gets in her way. It is chaos as I cannot hear anything but my horses steady but laborious breaths. The turbulent wind fills my ears otherwise. Iona jumps from off a rather short ridge. That's when off toward the horizon I can see the Three Sisters Sara told me to look out for. Three tall, narrow rock formations where signs of continual and recent habitation of travelers, traders, and whomever else tends to make their way between Rio Grande's capital of Campos Abiertos. A former Spanish then Mexican war camp that became a small town then into a bustling city. Where everyone with a hint of influence in Grandian politics live.

A loud rumble of thunder fills the air as Iona is now on a comfortable trot. After letting her drink from the first watering hole we found. Fed her some carrots from my satchel. Now I tighten the well-worn duster around myself. Knowing full well what is to come in what is likely less than half-an-hour. The smell of freshwater fills the nose. A very pleasant scent, if nothing else.

“I think we need to find a place to hunker down. What'cha think girl?” I ask Iona as I scratch her mane and give her a few pats.

She replies to me with a quick snort.

Chuckling to nothing in particular, “yes. I feel the same.”

The rain begins to pour in buckets as lightning and thunder add the accents to the storm. Thankful that we found an actual well-worn if rugged, trail through the desert. Upon said trail after several bends down a small mountain. I spot a half-burned house just off the trail. An old homestead with a small barn that has caved in on itself. An old fence now more log than actually a fence anymore.

“Is this suitable for ya?” I pat Iona's neck again before spurring her onward.

I haven't hitched Iona up for some time. At least when I am out on the range, so to speak. Letting her graze and roam to her heart's content. There's enough of a roof to let me sleep whilst dry, but starting a fire might be a tricky proposition. 

Sitting here a bit damp as I listen to the rain increasing. Gives me plenty of time to think. Which is a dangerous thing to do. I should be more on guard but no one knows I am coming. Any random bandits would have a very hard time taking my cash. So, it is almost as peaceful as it can get out here. With a sigh, I don't really know what to do myself. It doesn't take long for me to drift off to a night of restless sleep.

Four Weeks Ago

“I don't know, Emy,” I protest as I glance around us. Thankful that the tavern is more than full. No one paying attention to us. “This is...dangerous. Did ya get the others on board?”

She scoffs, waving her right hand dismissively. Curls of smoke trail behind the thin, dark cigar clutched between my oldest friend's fingers.

“Godammit, don't doubt me, Tee,” Emy appeals to my sense of loyalty. “Sean is in as are ta Douglas twins, ya know? Just gotta chat with Walter. We need his...expertise.”

“I'm not doubtin' ya. I would never doubt ya. My closest, best friend and companion. If'n wasn't for ya I'd died or ended up in a whorehouse, or somethin'. Just...We've had a string of bad luck. I don't want anyone else dyin'. Besides,” I lower my voice as I lean closer to her. So close even the smell of the whiskey on her breath is more than noticeable. “Beyond illegal. This is fuckin' treason.”

Emy is great at the dramatic sigh. Sitting down beside me and patting my knee. We've never been together in the official sense, but our persuasion being what it is. It isn't the most common thing. So, we are closer physically than most friends. Or perhaps not, I don't have a lot of experience with the concept of friendship, to begin with.

“I don't know 'bout ya, Tee, but I am tired of livin' off of rabbit shit and dirt. We can do this. All six of us can go and make new lives. No longer havin' to live handbill to handbill.”

“I get that, but I enjoy this life.”

“Then do it to be comfortable, ya know? So ya can pick and choose ya jobs. So all of us can be a bit more...well off. Do it fer me.”

Sighing, I take a long last drag from my cigarette before snuffing it out. Nodding, I reply, “right, Emy. Ya got me. My guns are yers. I got ya back.”

“I know ya do. I know.”

That's how the five of us find ourselves on our horses upon the outcropping of rock that overlooks the rail line. While Walter has positioned himself off to the side ready to blow up a copse of trees and rocks to block the train off. My reservations aren't necessarily about breaking the law. I do that damn near every time I bring in some asshole. But this? We were robbing the Republic of Texas payroll train that is heading to Mexico to pay their soldiers there.

“Seventy-five thousand fuckin' dollars in there,” Ryan Douglas, the larger and, I guess, more handsome of the twins. Their accents mar them as not born anywhere on this continent.

“Not ta mention over a dozen railroad bonds as well. Leviticus Ringwald has built an empire on the back of sugar, oil, and railroad. I am thinkin' he can 'ford to share a little,” Emy tosses the butt of her cigar away. “Bandannas on everyone! Remember, Douglas boys make sure none of ta passengers get uppity. Sean and I will make sure ta guards are handled. While Tegan will secure the pay car.”

Pulling the black cloth up to cover the lower half of my face. I give Iona a gentle pat as I can feel her nervousness. Then off in the distance, the distinctive horn of a train blows. Coming around a bend and it is just in view. That is Walter's signal, and in time, the explosion causes the train conductor to hit the brake – hard.

“Lets go!” Emy hollers.

The five of us descend upon the stopped train like locusts over a field of wheat. Guns fire at us from all over the train. But none hit their mark. Swears and curses fill the air as the five of us seem to have gotten the majority of the guards on the outside. Ryan and Adam Douglas board the train demanding money from the well-to-do passengers. I suppose we have to play the role of bandit and outlaw tonight. Emy and Sean climb up to the top of the engine to subdue the conductor and engineer. Before they get into a pitched gunfight with what seems to be the last of the stubborn defenders. At least the ones that didn't run with tails tucked between their legs.

Now the second to last car is my destination. The only really armored car. No way to get in conventionally and those inside know it.

“We're not comin' out, carpetbagger!” A gruff voice barks out. “If'n ya try to get in. We goin' to shoot ya to shreds. Send ya ta Hell!”

Checking to make sure both revolvers are loaded. I watch Walter in his over-sized patched pants, suspenders, and a cotton ranch hand shirt. Waddle over to the door with two sticks of dynamite tied together. Lighting the fuse he runs off as I wait for the few seconds that seem to take forever. With a short deafening explosion. The heavy metal doors are deformed and bent in odd shapes. Smoke fills the air clouding any visibility into the car itself.

Aiming both guns at the newly opened doors. Walter has his repeater up and aimed at the opening as well.

“We don't want to kill ya!” I call out. “But it is no never mind for me to do so. Come out with yer hands up!”

Then everything stops as I see a flash of light from within the smoke. I can't say anything as a gunshot rings out ripping through Walter's chest. Iona bolts off as I dive behind a blown-up tree trunk. Barely surviving the onslaught of gunfire. Not even a chance of popping my head up to see anything as bullets fly past me, striking the tree with a sickening thud.

“We got ya, girly! Give 'er up!” A voice from inside the car shouts.

“Tegan!” I hear Emy shout over the chaos around us.

A stick of dynamite in her hand. Lit from the end. It has a long enough fuse that when she tosses the explosive. We both watch it seemingly in slow motion. It lands right in the doorway. Causing everyone inside to scream for a brief moment before the metal inside gets so twisted that a hole is blown clear through the other side.

“Come ta fuck on!” Emy offers her hand down to me.

Grabbing her wrist. With both of our strengths, I climb onto her horse behind her. Wrapping my arms around the woman's waist. She spurs on her horse as I give a quick glance around but alas Iona is missing. The Douglas twins lie dead on the railing of the train. As if shot in mid-step. While Sean is nowhere to be seen. Gunfire still fills the air. A sharp whizzing flies by my ear, and for the first time since I was fifteen, I felt fear. True genuine fear as a knot is twisted within my guts.

“I almost lost my fuckin' head, Emy! What in the seven hells happened?”

“I'll tell ya if'n we survive the night. Just don't let go!”

My eyes open to the dead of night in the middle of the desert. A cold breeze blows in bringing with it the smell of rain. Even if the rain itself has ended. It is only a temporary reprieve. Iona trots over while snorting at me. Demanding a little attention and, perhaps, a carrot from my bag. Which I am always happy to give to her. Before retrieving a can of Pork'n'Beans from Wheeler & Rowler Co., of course. It isn't that good, to be honest. Nothing more than a stop-gap before my next actual meal. Whenever that will ever be. I couldn't say.

I drift off again, but no dreams. Which is a welcoming night. Though, it was a restful night. It was a night where the butterflies in my stomach were creating hurricanes. I've had dangerous and high-profile handbills before, but this? This is the most dangerous one to date. One that can, and will, change the whole landscape of Rio Grande. At least for the common folk.

The Mission I am looking for is still a decent ride from here. Going to take most of the day. Will most assuredly be night by the time Iona and I arrive there. Looking over the makeshift map the Marshall handed off to me. Making a mark on the map.

“Iona this is our next stop. Half a mile from this waterin' hole. So, we'll get our fill then bed down for the night. Not a fan of encounterin' this evil little asshole at night. On his own territory.”

Every time I look into her eyes it is almost as if there is a wizened intelligence behind them. I've had her for easily a decade, but she was fully grown by then. Rubbing her face causes the old girl to nuzzle into my gloved hand.

“I promise ya, Iona,” I say after a moment. “After this 'un. It is over. Ya can have that nice retirement in yer old age. Make friends. Be a horse. Not this dangerous shit I am always getting into.”

Giving the horse a soft kiss on her muzzle. Iona follows it up with a shake of her head. Breaking the small camp I made. I climb onto the saddle.

“Hi-yah!” I spur the old warhorse onward.


End file.
